


One Family Dinner

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Cooking, Gen, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6287647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Thanksgiving, and Sam has something of a surprise in store for Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Family Dinner

“You know what gets to me?” Dean asked, sitting in the car staring idly at the doors of the Walmart standing in front of them like a particularly ugly mountain.

Sam looked at him, brows raised.

“I haven’t eaten anything in like a week. I’m running on pure black coffee, nothing else. I’m getting jitters from it. And it’s taken us forty minutes to find somewhere to _park_.”

“That’s - not entirely accurate.”

“Shut up. I’m hungry, is the point. And there’s a mile of people lining up to buy turkey and jam in there. What the hell am I supposed to eat?”

“Another burger?”

“It’s _Thanksgiving_ , Sam!”

Dean tapped at the wheel frustratedly, and he wasn’t wrong, his hands were shaking as he did so. Then, without a warning, he pulled out of the parking lot.

“That guy behind us has been sitting there blocking the entire way for forever now just kinda staring at us like he’s some kind of a freak. I’m done with this. We’re not gonna bother. Whatever you’ve got, Sam, I’m fine with it, just spit the plan out now or we’re kidnapping and roasting the next bypasser tonight.”

Sam huffed gently.  
“I told you,” he says, eyes peering at the brightly coloured trees and bushes surrounding them, “I’ve got this. Glad you’re finally listening.”

“Look, you burn water on the stove, alright? I don’t trust anything you’re trying to feed me.”

“Sure. But you have no choice, unless you want to be queueing for it for the rest of the day.”

A grunt later, they were embraced by a silence full of the purring of the Impala’s warm engine. Dean looked grumpier and grumpier for a good ten minutes, making a much too tight corner at a crossroads and sending Sam against the car’s door with a gasp.

“Dude. If you’re too caffeinated to drive -”

“Shut up, shotgun.”

Sam smiled crookedly but accepted it - there were few corners left where Dean could still crush them before they were back at the bunker. He’d tried to tell the other the whole way that they didn’t need to stop to buy anything today, that he’d had it covered ever since before they’d even left for the hunt, but Dean wouldn’t have any of it, and since he didn’t want to listen, Sam let him have it his way. The more he complained, the more quiet and embarrassed he’d be when he had a proper meal served for him later.

That said, Sam didn’t blame him for being suspicious. Sam _had_  destroyed a kettle a few weeks earlier by forgetting it was on the stove, and, well - it hadn’t made him look like a very good cook. Dean had hardly ever seen him prepare anything proper, since as kids he’d always been the one catering, and later, they’d mostly eaten at diners or just bought whatever they could get their hands on while driving to go. After moving into the bunker, Dean had instantly adopted the kitchen as his own as if it had been made for him and had had his name carved on each surface upon their arrival; Sam had never complained. He liked to keep his food simple, light and fresh and therefore rarely needed to cook anything more complicated than a chicken salad, and if Dean enjoyed putting the rest of the space into use, all the more power to him. This had never been a competition between them: just like puzzle pieces, they’d simply fallen into place where the kitchen and its usage was concerned.

Now, however, he’d planned up something, and he’d planned it early. They rarely celebrated holidays, not even Christmas, not since the year before Dean had… well. It just hadn’t felt like something either of them wanted to do - none of it meant anything for them anymore. For their birthdays, it was always something simple, nonchalant, like a movie night or a day where the other had the unspoken right to boss the other around to his heart’s content. Sam didn’t know exactly why he’d suddenly been overcome by this… _need_  to do something special, but he wanted it, wanted a break from the usual, and he’d damn well make it happen. Thanksgiving had simply felt like the appropriate timing to do something for his brother - after all, what was he more thankful about than having one in the first place? He’d suspected Dean would put up a fight about it, but the fact that he eventually submitted anyway didn’t surprise him any more than the initial resistance. He would have done it regardless; Dean eating some premade garbage on the road would hardly have made a real dinner taste any worse. 

Sam didn’t see Dean again after the older fetched the last cup of noodles from the kitchen and vanished into his own bedroom to sulk, which suited him absolutely fine. He sneaked to the large freezer and unloaded everything he’d hoarded in there the past couple weeks, including the expensive steak he’d never tried to cook before but had prepared for the only way he could: by reading online recipes and food blogs inbetween the research he had to do for the hunt, trying to pick times when Dean wasn’t likely to peer over his shoulder at whatever he was doing. There would be no turkey: thawing an entire dead bird would have taken forever, and he’d abandoned that idea before it had properly managed to tempt him. Steak would do better for them, even if it wasn’t quite as fresh as he would have preferred.

There was a kind of silent joy that Sam felt whenever he put himself to work. It didn’t overcome him quite like it seemed to do for Dean, but he felt it just the same when he buried himself in books and research, putting his skills and brain into use. Cooking was similar in many ways: it kept his body occupied and his mind concentrated, void of any disturbances. All that mattered was that his measurements were correct, the temperatures were right, and that his timing was impeccable. Everything had its time and place - everything had an order, and he followed it as faithfully as he could. Sometimes, he was certain he could hear movement from the corridor and paranoidly turned around and went to look just in case Dean was trying to sneak a peek at what he was doing, but if he did, Sam could never catch him from the act. The scents of the meal started taking over, the deep, sweet scent of barbeque sauce the strongest of them all, mixing with the spicy aftertouch of the potato wedges cooking in the oven. The meal was topped with some boiled carrots and peas, cheap and simple. The crown of the meal was the apple pie, but Sam wasn’t sure if he was making it right; he knew how much Dean loved them, and for some reason, even though this was his _brother_  he was cooking for, it made him feel pressured to be perfect.

He spent the time the potatoes were preparing by nitpicking the pie: he adjusted the apple slices, evened out the crust and straightened the stripes of dough woven across it for looks. Then, when the main dish was finally ready to be served, he switched the pie out into the oven and laid out two plates with utensils and glasses to be carried to the table. He went first with those, and returned then for the dishes containing the food. Dean was nowhere to be found, but Sam suspected more than ever that he’d been sneaking around while he’d been cooking. Otherwise, his curiosity would have won over his grumpiness by now and he’d be here looking at everything Sam was serving regardless of permission. He would have never had the patience to sit still until Sam came looking for him unless he’d already sated the urge to know, but in any other case would do it to retain, if nothing else, at least the illusion for Sam of surprising him. Sam knew his brother well enough to read the theatre in his expression when he looked up from his tablet’s screen, pretending to be still angry and like Sam’s presence was unwanted. In reality, he’d been waiting anxiously for Sam to get there - he was quite possibly starving.

“So,” Sam smiled wearily but with warmth in his eyes and a small flame of nervous excitement in his chest, “the food’s there, if you want some.”

Dean grimaced, slid the tablet off of his lap and onto the bed and got up. He walked to Sam and pushed him aside to get in front of him, but he was dramatic about it, almost teasing.  
“Did you burn the whole kitchen down?” he asked, his voice dragging.

Sam caught up with him and scoffed.  
“Sure. The fire brigade is on its way.”

“Good.”

They reached the set table together. Dean eyed everything upon it with a hungry, excited look in his eyes and drew himself a seat, falling into it with a heavy thud. He patted the table as Sam sat down.

“Self-service?” he asked, and Sam chuckled quietly.

“Yeah. Dig in.”

“Oh, yeah. Let’s see what you can do.”

Sam watched with a crooked grin and with his brows slightly lifted as Dean _dug in_ : he watched two steaks leave the platter, watched a pile of potatoes appear, and even saw the slightly smaller pile of vegetables make company to the rest at the last clean surface of the plate. Carefully like it was art Dean poured the dark, almost black sauce over the steaks and the vegetables, then laid the ladle back down and looked at Sam.

“You gonna eat or what?” he asked with a judging look on his features.

Sam suppressed a smile and went for what remained: he was content with one thick steak for himself, and was fairly certain that Dean would silently regret going for two before he’d be finished. As big as they were, there was only so much space in them reserved for food at any given time.

“Is there dessert?” Dean asked, content now that Sam’s plate was filling up, too.

“We’ll see about that once you’re done with that load. C’mon, you can’t eat that much,” Sam huffed amusedly.

“Watch me.”

And, sometimes, Sam did watch him. There was a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach like little firecrackers going off as Dean ate and then kept eating and did so at an enormous speed, too. It was a mixture of pride and excitement - he couldn’t remember when he’d last managed to make up a surprise that lit the other up the way this meal seemed to do. He wasn’t wrong, however; Dean slowed down after half a steak and when he was tearing at the last half remaining, he was positively looking like it was a struggle.

“Wrap it up,” Sam laughed.

“What?” Dean asked him, mouth full of meat.

“Wrap it up. There’s foil underneath the pan. You can eat it later.”

“No, I’m gonna finish, stop being a pain.”

“Seriously. There’s still dessert there, and you won’t fit any in if you pig out just because you want to win a bet.”

Dean seemed to consider it. Then, grimacing, he laid down the fork and reached for the foil.  
“Fine.”

He wrapped the meat up with an indignified look on his face, like doing so was greatly wounding him, and placed the package back on the near shining clean plate he’d left behind. Then he raised up his gaze and looked at Sam, seeming timidly hopeful.  
“What’s for dessert?” he asked again.

“I’m - gonna go look if it’s ready,” Sam promised and got up from the table.

He felt full and happy, but a nervous feeling had returned to the pit of his stomach anyway - he couldn’t fuck this one up. The kitchen, however, smelled delicious. The scent of the pie was rich with the sweet tones of vanilla and cinnamon, all tied together with the smell of baking apples. By scent alone, he would have nailed it. His knees felt a little stiff as he knelt to look inside the oven, and he let out a small huff at the sight; the crust was darker than he’d wanted, much more so at the very back of the oven, but… well, it wasn’t burnt yet. Maybe the taste would be better than the presentation. In the end, only one of those things _really_  mattered.

Sam pulled the pie out and placed it on the counter, looking around for smaller plates. He brought them out with the carton of premade vanilla sauce he’d carefully hidden beneath a pile of tomatoes so that Dean wouldn’t accidentally stumble upon it. It had come close regardless: out of the blue, a few days before they’d left for the hunt they’d just now returned from, Dean had decided he was in the mood for some home-made spaghetti, and he’d used Sam’s wares for the sauce. Luckily, however, he hadn’t needed too many, and the vanilla sauce had remained undiscovered.

Now that it was there, in the middle of the table, Dean looked at it and raised his brows at Sam before the younger could back out of the room for the pie itself.

“When the hell did you buy all of this?”

“Like - the past month or so.”

“You’ve just been hiding it all over the bunker or what?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Jesus. It’s like coming home to a surprise birthday party, only your birthday’s nearly half a year away and someone forgot the strippers.”

Sam flashed him a small smile and left the room before he could say anything stupid. His hands were shaking a little as he put the coffee dripping and then, finally, picked up the pie: he walked carefully with it, still afraid to mess this all up at the last stretch. He didn’t; Dean seemed to have been rendered speechless as he laid down the final dish in the midst of the dinner chaos completely covering the map on the war room table.

“You made that?” the older finally asked, picking up the cheese slicer that was about the best they could use to cut the pie.

Sam didn’t know what to say to it, so instead, he just sat down and nodded.

“I mean, it’s kinda burnt, so I’d figure, but -”

A grimace flashed over Sam’s features again. Yeah, it was.

Dean let out a small breath as he slapped the first slice on his plate and absolutely covered it with vanilla sauce right after.

“I’m gonna - gonna go get the coffee,” Sam told him quickly and escaped the table again before Dean could complain.

He’d hoped that Dean would just eat the slice while he was gone, but somehow, as if knowing that Sam was nervous about exactly that, the man had magically resisted even touching it before he was served with a fresh cup of coffee. And still, as Sam sat down and was finally completely out of excuses to run off again, Dean still didn’t eat it. Instead, he kept watching Sam closely for a long while without saying anything.

“Alright,” he finally started, “What’s this all about? Did you break something? Did you take my car without my permission? You found another demon chick you’re banging and just don’t know how to tell me about it? Because if you have, it doesn’t matter if she’s hot, Sam, we’re not gonna -”

“No.”  
Sam cleared his throat.  
“No. It’s nothing like that. I just - it’s been, like, what? Fifteen years on the road with you now?”

Dean’s expression wavered a little. He poked at the pie with the small fork he was holding and watched the vanilla sauce seep into the holes he’d made.

“And, you know,” Sam kept going even though he had no idea what he was trying to say exactly, “I’m - I’m thankful for that. For having a brother who’s been through all this with me, and still sits here with me today.”

He saw the flash of a grimace on Dean’s face and knew he’d touched the no-go area of talking about feelings. He brushed it off; it wasn’t easy for him either.

“Okay.”  
It was Dean’s turn to clear his throat.  
“Okay. Well. I guess it _is_  Thanksgiving, after all.”

He cut a small piece from his pie and brought it to his lips, and Sam realised he probably felt slightly pressured about it, what with the mood Sam had just created and with him still staring directly at Dean watching every move he made. Dean swallowed and cleared his throat again, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and leaned back in his chair, looking anywhere but at Sam.

“Right. Alright,” he said thoughtfully.  
“Alright. Where should I start.”

Sam felt his brows rising slightly again.

“Right. Well, I’m thankful for - for today. We wrapped up a hunt today, no casualties that we could have prevented. That’s good. I’m thankful for - for coming home to a huge warm meal that… that tastes incredible. And finally, I… I’m thankful for my little brother, who somehow came from burning water to getting all of this done, and who… despite never wanting to, somehow, still sits here with me today.”  
  
Dean chuckled quietly and glanced towards Sam’s direction, making eye contact for a split second.

“And who makes a mean pie. Get some of that on your plate, Sammy, or I’m gonna eat all of it before you get a chance.”


End file.
